The Empty Palace
by wholockerlian
Summary: A younger Sherlock has gotten into some trouble when he is found on the side of the road by Jane, alias "Joe". He's uncooperative, stubborn, rude, and with very few memories. Scraps of information are floating around in his empty mind. A tale of a detective and a girl who likes mysteries.
1. He Meets Her

**This is a story I wrote about Sherlock when he was a bit younger. Twenty years old, maybe. No John, or not yet, anyway. **

**All rights to the BBC, but the other main character is mine.**

_**The chapters get much longer!**_

**Sorry in advance for any OOC, logic discrepancies, etc. If you do find anything, please feel free to tell me. **

Chapter One

"He" Meets "Her"

She walked along the side of the road, making her way closer and closer to him with fast but tired steps. An enormous backpack hung on her back, making her slump forwards slightly, her very long and very tangled ponytail swinging. Her nose was too long for her face and her ears stuck out a little, but her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity. He noted the small logo on her t-shirt, the unusual wear in her shoes, and the callouses on her fingers. Cashier at a small store, he decided. He was a little surprised when his mind added that she liked climbing trees in her spare time. She hadn't noticed him yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted her to. In fact, he was sure of very little.

He was... he really didn't know. A chill ran down his spine as he thought of what he remembered of the last week. Those memories and some odd little facts were the only things that swam around in the emptiness that was his head, along with very general information about people, science, and other such things.

She was getting closer now.

She. The youngest of a large family until recently, when something bad happened. At least two sisters. Stole the pack from her father. Name starts with J.

He groaned. _Let her see me. I don't care._

What would she do if she found him? Would she take him to the police? Would she take him back? Would she leave him? Rob him? There wasn't much to steal.

He knew he couldn't go to the police. And he'd rather die than go back. _No. Don't see me. Please, don't see me._ He tried to lean back into the tree under which he was standing, but was disappointed when he found that he couldn't move his left arm. An intense wave of pain slammed into him and his last thought as he fell to the ground was that surely, now she must have seen him.

**Review and tell me if I should continue. Thanks!**


	2. Jane Meets Him

**All rights... oh, you know. **

**Any problems, tell me. Should I continue?**

Chapter Two

Jane Meets "Him" 

Jane hummed a tune her mother had taught her as she walked, tripping over the ridiculous tree roots. Honestly, trees should know better than to grow so near the road! She really had expected better.

Glaring at the trees, she composed herself and straightened her t-shirt. Noticing a hole in it, she smiled a little, remembering the tree that had created it. Her expression sobered when she thought of the day after the incident. Looking behind her, she thought she heard the wailing of a siren. She hoisted her backpack up a little higher on her back and prepared to run, but stopped when a soft thump reached her ears from the side of the road.

Her curiosity got the better of her and she squinted as she walked over.

Whatever she'd been expecting, this wasn't it. No, she didn't think that she'd find a young man (maybe a year older than her?) passed out from what could only be blood loss.

He was covered in cuts, burns, blood, mud, and other things she didn't even want to think about. From what her eyes could make out through his ripped shirt, he'd been whipped.

She was about to check his pulse when his eyes fluttered. Then they stopped moving and flew open. They were a grayish blue, pale and incredibly intelligent.

"Look, I'm really sorry, but I'm going to have to move you. It'll hurt a lot," She started. What was she going to do? She couldn't leave him, but taking him to the hospital was out of the picture. _I'll just make sure someone else notices him,_ she decided. "I'll get someone to take you to the hospital, and the police, by the looks of you."

His eyes grew wider and his mouth opened, but no sound came out. The man closed it and tried again.

"No p-" he gasped, wincing, "Leave. J-h-ust g-go away." It was barely louder than a whisper.

"No can do." The gall! Here she was, wasting her time, doing good, and he was being rude! She thought about knocking him out, but realized it probably wasn't a good idea to add more injury to his head. "A thank you might've been welcome, though."

Jane knelt in front of him, grabbing his shoulder. She barely had time to be horrified at how bony it was before his agonized yell made her let go. His breathing calmed in a moment and he stared at her.

"Yes, th-thank you so, so, much." He whispered. "Now, leave."

"Why should I?"

He stared at her. His thin, long, pale fingers trembled and he clenched his right hand into a fist, pushing it into the ground and attempting to sit up. "I don't want your help."

"Tough. I don't care what you want." She grimaced. "Sorry in advance about this, though."

Jane gripped his hand and pulled him up. He tried to fight her off but his attempts were too weak to hurt her. She was about to tell him off, when he spasmed, his eyes rolled into his head and he went limp in her arms. He was disturbingly light.

She sighed as she looked from her bloodstained and ruined shirt to the dark-haired man in her arms.

Knowing her luck, no cars would pass anytime soon, and judging by the state he was in, his luck wasn't much better.

No, there would not be cars on Road 34 today, and Jane would have to take this man with her.

Until someone else could take him back to civilization, that is.

**Like I said, review please?**


	3. Meet Andrew Thickery

** This chapter's a bit longer than the first two. I'm giving you a choice, would you rather have me rarely update, but long chapters, or often update, short chapters?**

**Wish I owned Sherlock, but I think everyone else is, too. **

**Info chapter:**

* * *

Chapter Three

Meet Andrew Thickery

To say that Mycroft Holmes was angry was more than just an understatement. Oh, the things he would say to his moronic little brother when he got him back!

Two months. That's how long he'd been missing. Or, more precisely, 62 days. In fact, Holmes senior would be able to tell anyone how many hours.

Idiot. Rash, unthinking, imbecile. How could anyone have so little self-preservation?

_He's doing it on purpose._ Mycroft closed his eyes. _I wish this were just one of his silly tricks._

They had information. Very good information, but not good enough.

"We have a problem, sir," they'd told him.

"Project Normandy?" he'd sighed.

"No, sir," came the answer.

Why couldn't it have been Normandy?

_Thackery_, the voice whispered in his ear. _You know only he can be so thorough. _

He knew. Andrew Thackery. Known as "The Yellow Man". Thackery never wore yellow. There was never anything yellow tied to him. Mycroft had always wondered about the alias.

Sherlock had been investigating, with great reluctance, a case which he considered closed, but Mycroft did not. He was being very stubborn and if it were not for the tiny hair found in the dead man's wallet, the murder would be called suicide, and the whole matter would be left alone. Damn that hair!

_Sherlock glared at him, "No need to boost your notion of self-importance any further, brother, it's large enough."_

_Mycroft smirked. He was enjoying being right. Rubbing it in._

Not for long. The consulting detective was gone the next day.

* * *

Lestrade jerked awake, blinking rapidly as his eyes were flooded by the lights at the office. _Fell asleep again. This is ridiculous_. A quick glance around the room told him that he was by far not the most tired. Everyone had been looking into the new information. In fact, he really should tell Mr. Holmes.

Mycroft.

No one could have predicted his reaction to his brother's disappearance. Now that he thought of it, though, there was no other way it could've been. Sherlock kept him sane.

Or as sane as possible, anyway.

It had taken Mycroft Holmes approximately twenty minutes to solve the murder when he found out about the... situation. It took another thirty seconds for him to decide that they were not related, but that the kidnappers had used the case as the perfect opportunity to abduct the detective.

Holmes had given him the name of one A. Thickery, an apparently sadistical criminal mastermind out to get the British Government.

A day later, Mycroft approached him and and added that Sherlock had some highly confidential information, which Thickery would do anything to get. He emphasized the word "anything". The detective Inspector decided he must have imagined the wetness of his eyes.

"Two months, Sherlock," Lestrade whispered to nobody in particular. "It's time for one of your usual bloody brilliant miracles."

He frowned.

_"Detective Inspector! Detective Inspector!"_

_"What, Morgan?"_

_"I think you should see this, sir!"_

_The officer handed him a report._

_Lestrade's eyes widened. _

_"At least six dead in bomb explosion. Five injured," he read. They'd found eight other corpses, seven of which had been shot in the head. The house was in the middle of nowhere. If it weren't for the explosion, no one would've found it. _

_Lestrade's eyes widened as he looked at a photograph of the scene. _

_There, in the hallway with the cells lay what was unmistakably the consulting detective's infamous coat. _

_"I thought you would want to see it, sir," smiled Morgan._

"Is this your miracle, Sherlock?" he whispered again.

* * *

**So what do you think? Anything you don't understand? Want me to add?**


	4. Introductions

**Sorry about the slow update. This chapter's from Jane's point of view. Next one, Sherlock's. Sorry in advance for any medical inaccuracies. I, too, slept through health class. **

**There are some descriptions of injuries, nothing too detailed. Sorry if it's slow or confusing, but please tell me if it is (and what is). **

* * *

Chapter Four

Introductions, or Andrew and Joe

After four hours of walking on the side of some _bloody_ road, supporting a _bloody_ semi-conscious idiot (no pun intended), Jane was _bloody_ tired.

The sun was going down, bathing the trees in a soft orange glow and making it harder to see the way, so she decided it was time to stop for the day.

A disturbing idea struck her. This man was injured, pretty badly, they were in the middle of nowhere, and Jane had slept through all of her school health classes. She hoped he could tell her what to do.

Why hadn't she thought of this before? It would have been easier to see what was wrong (she shuddered at the thought of examining his mutilated body). On the other hand, he'd been incoherent, to say the least, so he wouldn't have been able to help her.

Jane sat down on the grass by the side of the road and gently propped him up on the tree. She sighed. Sure, she was incredibly annoyed, but he looked like he'd been through quite a bit. She'd allow him a few... eccentricities. _Like refusing help when bleeding out_, she added to herself.

"Sir? Look, I know you don't want to go to a hospital, but I'm going to need to see what I can do."

The man gave no response.

"Ok. I give up," She got up close to him, and yelled, "you're pregnant!"

His eyes flew open and he made an attempt to rise, but cried out and stopped moving.

Jane smirked, although a little guiltily, and said happily, "it was the first thing that came to mind. Now, I really am going to examine you," she paused, "You wouldn't happen to know how to treat any of, you know, _that_?"

He glared at her. "Of all th-the methods you had at your disposal, you chose the mo-" he jerked mid-breath, "-ost obnoxious, vulgar, and ignorant one," he breathed.

"It woke you up, didn't it?" She retorted.

"Yes. As could have many other things," he rolled his eyes, "If you insist on attempting to administer medical attention, I will be able to d-direct you."

"Good." And without further ado, Jane took off his shirt.

Jane was always a hasty child. When people were trying to be nice, they said she was bold. When they had no such reservations, they called her rash, idiotic, and many other things. As she grew, things did not improve. She would dash off at a moment's notice, doing impulsive things she would never even consider if only she _thought_ for a moment before plunging in. After these moments, she would never be able to tell if she felt content or ashamed.

This was such a moment. The man hadn't had time to protest as the shirt came off, but even through the rapidly closing in darkness she could see him blush as all the injuries were revealed.

The blood was mostly dry by now, making her wonder if their encounter came soon after the last of the wounds had been inflicted. Here and there, a trickle of red stood out, but it was evident that he was in no danger of bleeding to his death. Jane remembered something about internal bleeding, but decided to ask him later. He had many thin white scars which were pretty obviously still new. The burns...

She fought the urge to be sick as her mind connected the patterns on his bare skin with various objects.

A deep breath, wasn't that supposed to help? She closed her eyes and silently counted to ten.

When she was relatively calm, she muttered, "Bastards..." She opened her eyes. He was staring at her, apprehensive.

"Alright. Let's start big. Missing limbs, zero, so far. I think." Jane declared uncertainly. "Next, uh... You know? I don't even know your name."

He seemed to consider this for a moment, then said, "Andrew. Er, Smith."

"Ok, _Smith_, any broken bones?"

"Yes." There was a pause. "Ribs, I think, arm, left, and maybe some fingers."

"Blimey." What was she supposed to do? "Er, any idea how to treat all of that?"

"Bind the ribs, t-tie up the arm, I'm not sure I can do anything else, and you hardly seem competent." Jane frowned. She really didn't like how much trouble he was having with breathing. She only registered his insult a few seconds later.

"I may be incompetent, but there's no one else. How the hell did you get into this mess anyway?"

Was he struggling for breath again, or thinking of a plausible lie? "I got mugged." She snorted. Obviously not, "plausible".

"Whatever you say."

"What's yours?" He sudden;y demanded.

Startled, she looked up from where she'd been rummaging in her enormous pack trying to find something to treat him with. "My what?"

"N-name, of course."

Now it was her turn to pause. _Wouldn't do to give it away too hastily._ "Er, Lily Evans."

"Liar, y-h-our name starts with a J." He smirked at her scowl.

"Fine, then. My name's Joe. And I'm not giving you my proper last name so Evans'll have to do."

The man, _Andrew Smith,_ seemed to believe that. _Good._

In two hours, by the light of her globe-shaped flashlight, she finally finished washing his cuts, binding various places, and setting bones. She certainly hoped she wouldn't have to do that again.

_Maybe an ambulance would just happen to pass by,_ she thought wistfully.

Jane stared at the sleeping man before her. The moon was almost full and she could see the sharp shadows on his face. One of her blankets hid his body, for which she was grateful. It was all starting to catch up to her.

"Mugged," he'd said. Andrew Smith. _Not likely, _she thought, before climbing under the blanket and falling asleep.

**Review. Also, any grammar mistakes?**


	5. Memories and Refusals

**I haven't had very much time, and rather than waiting forever and still not reviewing it properly, I decided to simply publish it. Tell me about any errors.**

**Anything you want for future chapters?**

* * *

Chapter Five

Memories and Refusals

When Sherlock woke up, he kept his eyes firmly shut. He had no desire to return to the world of beatings, and, after all, the dream hadn't been all that bad. Even if the girl was hopelessly dull.

He knew that in a moment his captors would notice his uneven breathing and force him to open his eyes with a fist, a knife, or a bucket of cold water.

Oh. He hoped it wasn't a "water day". He really didn't enjoy being held underwater until he stopped moving, and all the other... methods of persuasion they employed.

His "entertainers" were incredibly good. They must have been trained specifically to inflict as much pain as possible without damaging the body too much. And to keep him alive for so long...

They had managed to prevent him from committing suicide several times. He remembered that.

He remembered knowing that he mustn't tell, trying to make it so that he couldn't tell, and finally locking away all the information. Locking it away tight.

Sherlock, he knew that was his name, had woken one day to find his Mind Palace in complete disorder, as if a bomb had detonated inside it. Books and such were floating around, and an enormous sign was posted on one of the doors: "Your name is Sherlock, but don't try to remember your last name. Don't open the prison until Mycroft says everything is okay. If you can, go somewhere far, far, away. Don't take planes, don't go to the police, don't tell _them_ anything you remember. You can trust Mycroft. You'll know Mycroft. Protect Mycroft."

When Sherlock opened the door, he did indeed find a prison full of books and strange objects in various cells.

He didn't open it. He didn't know who he was anymore.

Something shifted on his ribs and his eyes shot open. His ears were suddenly full of birdsong, and he took in the shining sun and the gray road. Then he remembered. He'd escaped.

When he looked down at what had been the cause of the flare of pain, he let out a surprised breath. It was Joe, sleeping peacefully on his chest.

Of course, Joe.

For the first time in weeks he smiled a true smile, remembering her chosen method of waking him.

She wasn't too bad.

Sherlock shifted a little. _I will never go back. No matter what, I'm not going back, _he decided. It was logical for him to go to a faraway country, but he wasn't sure if he would be able to without leaving a trail. Maybe he could just go live in a forest somewhere.

_Interesting, isn't that something Joe would do?_ If it was, they could go together. Until something more suitable was arranged, of course.

He smiled evilly as he put his mouth near her ear and took a deep breath.

"You're pregnant with triplets!" he yelled, as loud as he could (it wasn't much louder than a normal voice).

Joe shot up. Then turned and glared at him.

"Jerk."

"It w-h-as the first thing that came to mind."

She rolled her eyes.

He was suddenly very uncomfortable. "Er, I was j-just going to ask you-" he broke off. If only he could fluently ask her for a pain reliever. Not that he needed one, he just didn't want to pass out.

"Do you need me to check your injuries again?" Joe asked, face morphing into a caring, worried expression.

"Yes. It w-would be nice..." his voice faded into a whisper, "Do you have any aspirin?"

"Oh. Er, yeah, I think so. Can you hang on a sec?" She walked over to her pack and started rummaging through it again. Sherlock forced himself to stop deducing things about her.

"There." She gave him a pill. "Although you're only supposed to take it on a full stomach. She squinted at him, no doubt taking in his... lack of weight. "Alright, take it, but after that you're eating. A lot."

"As my body is unused to eating l-large quantities of food at the moment, I doubt that would be wise." He frowned, then swallowed the pill. "Check the open wounds for infection, if you wish to do so."

"Okay. And, about last night, the shirt incident, I'm sorry, I guess I didn't think beforehand." She added as she started fussing with his injuries.

"Clearly." She seemed to that quite a bit.

Joe Evans. Was that her real name? She'd as much as said that the last name was false, but "Joe"? Well, he was one to talk. _Andrew Smith_. How on Earth did he think of that?

Smith... very common name. Could actually be his true last name, he decided. _I hope not, it's dreadfully common. Boring. "_Andrew", though... back when he'd been taking drugs, didn't he have a dealer named Andrew?

_Idiot! Moron! Imbecile. You're not supposed to think about your past._ He tried to force his thoughts away from that, but... wasn't that about a year ago? His brother had gotten him to stop, introducing him to DI L- _No! Stop it! Stop it! _"STOP IT!"

Joe dropped the box with bandages.

"Sorry? Er, did I do something wrong?"

He felt his face flush. "No. Talking, t-to, myself." After his explosive yell, he was very out of breath.

"Oh. Right. Well, I'm almost done. I don't suppose you know of anything else I should do, apart from wait for someone to pick you up?" He flinched.

"No! You- I can't- I won't go to a hospital. You can't tell anyone. I, I have to get away from the road! I have to get a-away from you. You'll call an amb-bulance."

After his rant she seemed a little frightened of him. Finally she frowned.

"You really are an idiot, aren't you. Just look at the state you're in! You need real medical care. Don't you have anyone you could call if you get to civilization?"

"Ye-No." He glared at her. "I am now going to leave. Thank you for helping me with some of my injuries." Sherlock slowly stood up ignoring her skeptic expression, and promptly fainted.

_Damn._

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**You know what? If you actually ****_want_**** to read another AN, go to a different chapter. **


	6. A New Beginning

**In this chapter things may go a little fast. If you think so, tell me what exactly is implausible. Thanks! **

**Sorry about the names.. :)**

**I don't own Sherlock.**

* * *

Chapter 6

Joe and Sherlock, or A New Beginning

Either Andrew really liked fainting, or his injuries were worse than he'd implied. Jane frowned. She was going to get some answers out of him when he woke up again.

And why was he so adamant about going to a hospital, and the police? Surely he must want protection, proper treatment. Unless... all those conspiracy theories were suddenly coming to mind. Was he on the run from the authorities? And, _did the authorities do that to him_?

Wasn't there some sort of international law about this?

No, it had to be criminals.

She knelt down by him and gently ran her hands through his long hair. He barely, had a beard, so either he'd only been captive for a short while or his hair just wasn't used to growing on his chin, she noted. Jane scrunched up her forehead. Was that how it worked? She had a feeling he would know.

Andrew stirred.

Opening one eye, he immediately glared at her.

"You're n-not taking me to the hospital." He declared.

She blew a strand of hair out of her eyes, not answering. Whatever. If he didn't want to go, who was she to make him.

He slowly sat up, using his right arm to support his weight.

Except she couldn't bloody well leave him here, could she?

"How the hell did you get here? And don't blow me off, or I'm knocking you out, and sitting in the middle of the road until someone stops by and takes you into town."

His eyes widened comically. "I... took a train."

Jane thought for a minute. Yes, she'd seen the tracks, but- "They let you on it like that?"

"I wasn't_ in_ it, exactly. I was quite literally_ on_ it."

"You rode on the roof?"

She wasn't getting this.

"Y-yes."

"O-okay... What about your injuries?" He opened his mouth but she cut him off. "Don't give my the 'mugged' rubbish. I won't tell anyone."

He seemed to consider for a moment.

"I had some information some people needed. They tried all they could to get it."

Her mouth fell open. _He was tortured. For information. Like in the movies_.

"W-what... w... how... and..." Jane couldn't focus. "And you didn't even tell them?" She blurted.

His expression was grim. "No."

"Sorry. Hang on, why don't you want to go to the police, then? They'll protect you."

"No. Here, no one of importance knows who I am, where I am." He looked unimpressed by the look she gave him. "Don't give me that. You know what I mean. If I go to the police, people will find out. And people can be bought."

"Sorry," she repeated. Then she looked down and mumbled, "Not you, though, apparently."

His eyes were full of apprehension and fear. "You won't turn me in, then?"

"No, I guess not."

_Blimey, if he gets any happier, he'll shine_, thought Jane.

"I can't just _leave_ you here, though!"

"Why not?" He looked genuinely confused.

"Well, I dunno. Look at you!"

He thought for a moment, then turned to her. "I'll get better really fast. I know I will, and you could use another pair of hands. I can help you build it, if you'll let me." He looked so hopeful, but she was totally lost.

"Huh? Build what? Let you?"

"Build the l-little house. Like in your book. I saw it when you were looking for supplies. I kn-now you ran away from home and you are planning to stay somewhere in a forest. You took tools to live for a while, and survival guides. I can help! Just let me come. Please." The last word sounded forced.

"How did you learn all that?" Jane couldn't help but ask.

He rolled his eyes. "If I tell you, will you let me come?"

Jane needed a moment to think.

If I ever tried to tell you what went through her head, it would take pages and pages of text. So many things flooded her brain, that I don't believe even she could tell you half of them.

It all came down to this, though: a strange (to say the least) man had come into her care. He was rude, stubborn, and a liar, but...

Yes. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if she turned him down.

And it wasn't because she _pitied_ him. But she didn't really know why.

"Yes."

For the first time since she'd seen him, he grinned, his face transforming, turning bright and welcoming.

In future years, she would dread thinking about what could have happened, had she said "no".

* * *

Sherlock was ecstatic. He was so happy! He was... he couldn't believe he was actually being redundant. After all, one couldn't be so happy and ecstatic at the same time. Didn't they cancel each other out?

And yet he was.

Of course, he didn't know why. After all, he barely knew her.

So why was he suddenly even happier after seeing her smile at her own decision?

He ran through dozens of designs of wooden cottages and shacks.

They'd need to make it warm, also, near a river...

Joe Evans and Sherlock Holmes. _Holmes._

Oh, no. His face fell. _Why did I have to remember that? No last name! _At least it isn't Smith, he consoled himself.

But, just now, he couldn't stay unhappy for longer than a couple of seconds.

Ignoring her bemused expression, he beamed and slowly got up, wrapping his painfully thin arms around her. "Thank you, I am so grateful." He whispered.

"You better be." She answered with a wink.

After a pause, she said, "You did promise to explain, you know."

So he told her everything about his deductions, and when she helped him start limping, explaining where they were going (only about three days' walking left!), he followed happily.

_It will take longer, of course, with me. _He decided.

"My name isn't Andrew S-smith." He admitted a few hours later.

"I knew it! I don't like the name Andrew. Although, for the record, my name isn't Joe Evans, either."

They chuckled, then looked at each other.

"My, name is Sherlock. I did like the n-name Joe. And you seem like one, too. Ah, well. One can't have everything, I suppose." He smirked.

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I like the name Joe as well. My real name is Jane. No, you know what? Call me Joe. Joe Evans."

"Can I be S-Sherlock Potter, then?" He asked, wincing slightly from a movement with his left arm.

"Yes, you may. Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Good, Mr. Potter, now, our cottage is waiting, keep up the pace."

_Joe Evans_, he thought. _Joe Evans and Sherlock Potter. _

** Like I said, review? Please? Anything too confusing?**


	7. They Shouldn't Have

**WARNING: some (not much) graphic injury-acquiring in the following chapter. If you're squeamish don't read the "what happened" part in the italics.**

**Again, I know this is probably way too confusing... so review and tell me what's wrong, I may be able to clear it up.**

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Chapter Seven

They Shouldn't Have

Back at home, one of the survivors had been persuaded to tell the truth. In fact, there hadn't been need for much_ persuading_. Mycroft Holmes, abandoning his role as "Soon-to-Be-British-Government" had entered the room as a big brother. It had taken one frightened glance at his rage-contorted face and shaking hands for the thug to start spilling every little detail. In fact, they had trouble shutting him up.

Sherlock was, indeed taken because of the confidential information. He was beaten, cut, burned, shocked, and drowned, but "that asshole was fucking stubborn". "The boss" had been kept aware of everything through daily reports and photos.

In the end, it had been their treatment of the aspiring consultant detective that led to their downfall.

_Snap._

_Three. Even as tears streaked down his dirt-covered face, Sherlock kept track of the fingers broken. _

_It seemed like he'd been here forever. As long as he could remember, anyway. _

"_Don't tell me you don't know. We both know that's a lie. Now listen carefully, I know you think you're clever. Superior, even. I'm here to tell you that's another lie. You may have gone two months, but today you're spilling. NOW! Or I break your arm."_

Is he mad because he didn't manage last time, in front of the others? _Sherlock thought. _Or- no, it must be his bet. That I would break by today. I must be ruining everything for him. Not breaking. I won't open the memory prison cells. Won't remember. I refuse.

_He shuddered. He didn't want him to break his arm._

"_Scared, huh? Sad you're just like the rest of us?"_

Wont's open the cells. Won't remember. I refuse. Won't open the cells. Won't remember.

"_I refuse!" he yelled. "Won't, no, won't. Mycroft- I won't!"_

_Crack. Crack. _

_The arm. Everything went numb, then mind-blowing agony flooded Sherlock's body. _Not a clean break.

"_You," he panted, glaring, "Can break all th-the bones in my body. I _don't_ know and even if I d-did I w-" A fist slammed into his stomach. "Wouldn't tell you." He added in a whisper._

"_Take him away. No progress." The man spit Sherlock in the face as he was pulled away into his cell. "And no food."_

_That last order was quite unnecessary. It had stopped being necessary after one guard was shot in the head after bringing "the guest" food without orders. In the two months he'd spent in here (wherever "here" was), they'd only given him food about once a week. Just barely enough to keep him aware._

_Of course, there had been promises that, should he break, there would be food aplenty, along with a bed, clean water, and a relief from the sessions. The prisoner didn't give in._

_Hadn't Mycroft called him "bloody stubborn" one day? _Don't think about him! Don't open the cells!

_When they locked him in his manacles, not even bothering to close the ones around his feet, they left him alone. In the very beginning, they had been incredibly cautious. They would post a 24-hour guard outside the room and hang him up, or pin him down, or tie him in the most uncomfortable position after the day's injuries, double-checking and triple-checking that everything was secure. Now, they obviously no longer considered him a threat. They didn't lock the door. Or post a guard._

_Idiots. _

_Sherlock let out a grunt as he shifted his damaged hand in its manacle. He closed his eyes, counted to three, and pulled, biting down on his lip so hard it bled. Suddenly his arm was free._

_They shouldn't have let him get so thin._

_They shouldn't have broken his arm._

_They should never have underestimated him. _

_He reached down and picked up a stick he'd stolen in his first week. Back when he thought he could escape. He thought no such thing now, but it couldn't get any worse, could it? _

_His trembling fingers stuck it into the lock in his other manacle and another groan released his lips as he strained to get it open._

_Click._

_Good. Now, seven possible exits. He already knew what he'd do. He had a plan._

_He snuck out of the door and dashed to a far-off hallway, close to the main halls, but out of sight. He would know when the guard changed._

_Half an hour passed and the alarm didn't sound. Sherlock knew that it would soon be time. He ducked into a room, intending to sit down for a moment, when he saw what was on a carefully-prepared table. Liquids. Not just any, these were labeled. He recognized them as what was needed for a bomb. If he could get this to detonate when they combined them... _Ah, yes, salt would do the trick._ Just a tiny bit will do. He added it._

_They won't miss him for a while. He smiled, lips cracking painfully from the disuse. _

_A commotion was heard from the main hall. Enough for a change of guards. Not enough for an escaped "guest". _Finally_, thought Sherlock, and smiled again._

_He darted out of the room and ran down another hallway. He had six minutes._

_In five minutes, he'd managed to get to the window he'd noticed his second week here. THE window._

_In a few seconds' time, a cargo train would appear below him, and stop. _

_He breathed a sigh of relief. There it was. _

_A year ago, even in his unhealthy, drugged state, he wouldn't have fit in the window._

_Those idiots shouldn't have starved him._

_He quietly broke the glass with his elbow, wincing as the glass cut through his shirt. Dropping down on the still train, he inhaled as deeply as he could and smiled for the third time, savoring the fresh air. _

_He hid on the roof of the train, and as it began moving, he thought he heard an explosion._

_It was his lucky day._

_He was free. _

As he tried to forget the photographs of the half-dead prisoner, Mycroft wiped his eyes. His brother had escaped because his arm was so mangled it fit through a manacle and his body so starved it fit through a window. Smiling bleakly, he reminded himself that it was also because, and he suspected Sherlock had something to do with this, a bomb-in-the-making had exploded. Andrew Thickery must be oh, so, mad. He really wasn't all that careful, was he?

He thought over what the thug had said. When they'd realized their prisoner was gone, (they also understood how) they made to leave, but were too slow what with the bomb and injuries, and the authorities were there too soon.

And now, Mycroft would make them pay.

Because their biggest mistake wasn't starving Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't breaking his arm. It wasn't checking the liquids for the bomb. It wasn't leaving the door unlocked. It was hurting Mycroft's little brother.

So Mycroft will make Andrew Thickery wish he'd never been born, and rue the day he ever laid a finger on William Sherlock Scott Holmes.

**What do you think?**


	8. Good Morning

**Thanks for the reviews! This might be a bit confusing again... Anyway, this is two months after the last two chapters. Also, Jane has gotten used to the name Joe so that's what she'll be called from now, on. **

**Warning: some talking about domestic violence**

* * *

Chapter Eight

Good Morning

Jane, no, Joe... Jane thought of herself as a Joe, now. It had been two months since she'd introduced herself as such to Sherlock, and she had never felt happier. Oh, it was hard. There were a couple of pretty serious rainfalls and the weather hadn't been the best one could wish for, but she'd never felt more at home than she did now, in their wobbly little tent.

"Tent-shares", that's what Sherlock called them, but after a month, they'd become more than that.

They were friends.

As a child, Joe, then called Jane, was cheerful, always thinking of new ways to get into trouble. She usually hung out with boys, laughing at the girls who acted like princesses, making fun of her two older sisters, and training her younger one to be nothing like them.

Then her father lost his job and it all went wrong.

His "monthly pint" became a weekly one, then a daily one, then it was two pints, then three, then four, and then they lost count. As if things weren't bad enough, her little sister, Amanda, got sick. This shocked Father out of his drinking stupor long enough to get her to a hospital where the doctors proclaimed her to be a poor child, and "we're very sorry, but there's nothing we can do". It was the day after Amanda passed away that Father struck Mother for the first time. He then went back to liquor.

In two months, they found out Mother was pregnant again, and Father was so happy he actually stopped drinking again. He told "Jane", who was his favorite, that he hoped they got a boy, but Joe suspected it was more than that.

He'd always wanted boys.

So when Mother gave birth to a girl he wasn't happy. Joe had finally climbed the tallest tree in the little forest near her ex-high school (_A/N: Sorry, British people_) the day before. She had been in such a good mood when she was called to the hospital that she didn't even notice her father's rage. She should have seen it coming. Her father was drunk, again, and used her as a punching bag. Then Child Protection Services came and took the baby.

Joe decided to run. Most people would have gone to a big city, but she just liked trees. She stole everything she needed and left, taking a bus to as close as she could get to the forest she'd chosen and hitchhiking her way up until she found Sherlock.

She shivered as she thought of what would have happened to him if she'd been picked up and the car had just driven by him. He would probably be dead.

When she'd told him about her nightmares he hugged her for the first time and told her about his.

At the moment, she was watching his chest go steadily up and down, listening to his quiet breathing and reassuring herself of his presence. She'd just woken from a dream in which her father whipped him, and then stabbed him, all the while saying that she was his favorite.

Joe huffed. It was pretty cold. They had agreed to drop all politeness and propriety for the sake of practicality and warmth, so they were huddled together under her many blankets.

"No! I won't!" he suddenly yelled, "I don't _know_, I don't remember! Won't."

"Shh. It's alright. You're here, in the middle of nowhere. You're safe," she immediately reassured him, familiar with the routine.

"Won't," he declared, whimpering.

"You don't have to do anything, except wake up," she shook his shoulder, careful not to reopen any of the old wounds.

He'd explained that he'd been... "hurt" in ways that insured plenty of pain, but little "damage", as he called it, so his injuries were quickly healing themselves with very little of her inept help needed.

One of the main things she had to do was make sure nothing got too badly infected. The first week of their symbiotic relationship they had discovered an impressive infection. Joe had point-blank refused to do what he demanded.

Oh, and what was that, do you ask? He bloody asked her to _cauterize_ it. When the infection got so bad he couldn't move, she relented. It was one of the worst things she'd ever done.

"Wake up, Sherlock," she insisted, "Don't make me tell you _I_'m pregnant this time, I think you might have a heart attack if I did."

He stopped whimpering and opened his eyes.

"Joe?"

"Yeah. You were dreaming again."

"I know. Thought I was... back there," he groaned, "What did I do?"

"Well, you were saying you wouldn't. And, er, whimpering."

He groaned again. "How dreadfully embarrassing."

"You know it's fine, right? It's okay."

He glared. "You can't expect me to be _fine_."

"I don't. You're the one who's surprised that there are aftereffects. But don't worry, it's natural, because you're an arrogant idiot." She smiled affectionately.

He continued glaring.

She laughed and ran her fingers through his hair. "You know, we really need to give you a haircut."

"I know, it is completely unacceptable," he sighed.

They didn't say anything for awhile.

"I could do it tomorrow when we stop the work," she offered.

"Today."

"Huh?"

"It's today. It's past midnight. Ergo, what you mean by tomorrow is today."

"Right, yeah. So do you want me to cut it?"

He eyed her pensively. "I doubt you'll be much better as a barber than a doctor, but I suppose it can't be helped."

"Thanks for that."

He smirked.

"You know, the days are getting longer, so we can stop before dark, then I'll be able to do it better."

"All right."

Joe looked at him. "Are you going to sleep?" It had taken her three weeks to understand a bit more about his sleeping habits (still not much) so the question was valid.

"I suppose so. And you will, too." He looked almost too smug.

"I know you're dying for me to ask how you knew, although before you start spouting your 'deductions', I want to point out that any sane person would go to bed, so it's really not all that impressive."

"Ah, but that would be guessing, or assuming. No, it's all very simple. You just _snuggled-"_ he said the word as if it smelled, "closer to me. You have made no effort to get up."

He was right. It was ridiculously easy, once he explained it. But really, it wasn't Joe's fault. It was the middle of the night.

This was nothing to some of the things he had shown her. She supposed he must have been a policeman or something before he lost his memory. Actually, Sherlock had told her that he hadn't lost it. When he tried to describe his "Mind Palace", though, she had gotten very confused. Basically, he'd kept the information safe by locking it away and refusing to access it. He was telling the truth when he said he didn't know.

"I don't know what you want me to say? You're right? I don't need to tell you that," she moved a bit closer to him. "Now, sleep. We're finishing the wall tomorrow, like it or not. I know it's getting warmer, but we can't bloody stay in this tent."

"Fine."

They had planned everything out carefully. Sherlock appeared to know a lot about mathematics and what one needs to survive, so after they chose the perfect spot, they made a design and started building. More accurately, Joe had started building, with the skinny git lying on the ground and explaining what to do. Lately, he had started to help her, but he was still weak. And very thin.

She'd tried to make him eat, she really did. The survival kit she'd gotten explained everything and this was one of the ways she'd chosen the forest they were in. They might have a tad too many dried mushrooms in the winter, but they would certainly never starve. Anyway, Sherlock couldn't keep very much down. Like he had said, his body wasn't used to it. Only now was he beginning to eat more like a human than a bird.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Morning," he mumbled.

"Huh?" Her eyelids were drooping.

"It's morning. It's after midnight."

"Good morning then."

"Good morning to you, too."

Joe didn't remember when exactly she fell asleep.

* * *

**Probably lots of errors. I apologize for the medical ones, and tell me if you see any others.**


	9. Sticks and Shirts

**I know that this is all very unrealistic, improbable, and wrong. If you know of any way they can live that is more realistic, then review. Sorry.**

**Review, please. I won't post again until you do.**

Chapter Nine

Sticks and Shirts

Sherlock knew he should have gone back to sleep. After all, he knew an average of four hours can't sustain any normal person, but something told him he'd been used to this kind of thing, before.

He turned his head a bit to look at his sleeping companion. She let out a soft whistling sound every few breaths, which, Sherlock had to admit, was slightly funny, as she had complained extensively about her inability to whistle. His eyes had adjusted to the dark and he could now see the outline of her face. He fought the urge to trace the bump on her nose.

It was a little too long to be considered "ideal", but somehow it only made her seem more human. As did the ears, which stuck out a bit, and the two crooked front teeth, and the squinting. Did she need glasses? He frowned. For some reason, he felt as if he needed to fix that.

Joe had amazing hair. She had laughed at him when she caught him staring at the way the bright spring sun made it look as if it were on fire, all gold, flowing down her shoulders. He was also incredibly impressed by her cool attitude towards tangles in it. She brushed it once in a while, usually while swimming/washing. Then she would keep it in a braid or two for some time.

When he'd explained everything, she had looked as though she as though she wanted to ask questions (although she always looked like that), especially about his past, but refrained from doing so. He was very grateful. Sherlock fought daily to keep himself from letting it out. He would have whole conversations with himself.

_You're safe, you can find out._

_No, I can't. There's a reason I locked it away. _

_It was to stop them finding out. It's been two months, you escaped, they won't get you. And you probably have friends. And Mycroft. They're worried._

_They can still find me._

Lately, it had become easier, and the conversations had become rarer. Also, his injuries were healing very well. He barely had any problems with the ribs, although he still had trouble with his arm. Joe had yelled herself hoarse the day he'd tried to pick up the axe with it. It probably had something to do with the pained grunt he'd let out.

But really, it wasn't his fault. He'd just gotten carried away.

During the second week, they'd explored the best parts of the forest, finally settling on a nice area with a clean stream, big trees and lots of animals and growth. They found an indent in a hill, like a half-cave, and decided to use that as a base for their little hut.

The design they were using was quiet simple, a combination of log cabin-like walls and roof, cave, and clay and mud finishing touches. Sherlock was quite proud of it.

He found the clay when he was wandering around, strictly forbidden from helping, yet too bored to sit around all day doing nothing. He was so enthusiastic about it he almost slipped. After that, he spent most days filling the holes left in her handiwork, as she was no master of building, and making small but useful creations for their future lives. For example, he'd made them a number of dishes, basins, and mugs. Joe already had a favorite one, a tall specimen made of darker clay.

He still couldn't believe she'd forgotten to bring teacups or mugs. She was _English_, how could she? She wrote it off as leaving in a hurry.

Sherlock shifted, reveling in the heat radiating off Joe's sleeping form. It was still pretty cold, but nothing like what they'd endured before. It was particularly bad the first three weeks. During the night, they had fires running, and Joe didn't sleep very much. Between caring for her unexpected companion and making sure they had everything they needed, mostly food and warmth, she was kept very busy.

At the moment, they were mostly living off fish and various edible flower buds and nuts. Joe had come with a lot of granola bars and beef jerky, which she mostly fed to Sherlock, saying it was painful to look at him, for fear of getting paper cuts. She'd also taken seeds to plant, and they were busy doing so at the appropriate times. Unfortunately, nothing would come of most of what they were planting now until summer.

Joe said that it was okay for Sherlock to help her now so the work started going faster. They were almost done with the longest wall and parts of the other one. He realized that she was giving him the easiest work (like making something to be used as a door) but he didn't mind that much.

It was nice being with her.

Sherlock noticed it was growing lighter, making her face easier to see. She seemed relaxed, comfortable. His own face grew hot as he recalled the incident earlier today.

I whimpered.

She had reassured him so many times that he shouldn't be ashamed of any of his weaknesses, but it only felt worse. After all, who was he to deserve her, who had taken in and cared for a complete stranger.

Who was he? That was the question, wasn't it. The question in plain sight, the question that could never be answered.

Birds started singing and he decided to wake her up. Or else she'd be grumpy, annoyed they'd overslept.

"Joe," he called softly, "Joe?"

"Mm. What?"

"Are we going to do the pregnancy thing again?"

"'S it time to wake up?"

"Yes, it is."

"Fine."

"Fine, you'll wake up, or fine, do the pregnancy thing."

"Yeah, that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Joe, our daughter's pregnant."

She shot up, wide awake.

"That... don't _ever_ do that. Way below the belt," then she smiled. "Although it's nice you did something new, and I have to admit, it was very effective," she looked at him. "Did you even sleep?"

"Not really."

"Idiot," she mumbled, turning away and starting to take off her nightshirt. He turned away, used to this, just as her long braid struck the side of his head.

"Ouch!"

Suddenly she was there, looking concerned, with no shirt.

"Are you all right? Did I hurt you?"

"Er, no, but..."

"What?! If you say you're fine and you aren't I will skin you, M. Potter!"

"No, it's just..." his eyes flicked downwards.

She followed his gaze and laughed. "Never took you for the bashful type."

Sherlock looked away, blushing furiously.

"Oh, come on. It's fine. I've seen more of you than I'd like to admit, and it's not like we won't be living together soon," she looked thoughtful. "Actually, we are living together."

She turned to him.

"You are happy, right? You're not regretting anything? I mean, if you had a choice. Because, you know, you can always leave, not that I want you to. I'd be very sad if you did, you know."

She tended to ramble a bit when she was nervous.

"I'm very happy here. Except.."

"Except what? If it's something with your injuries, then you better tell me."

"No, but you still haven't put you're shirt on."

"Oh."

"Yes, oh. And for your information, I don't regret anything. If it had been anyone else, I'd be bored out of my mind right now. Maybe I would have run away. Or been dead."

"Oh. Well, I'm glad. Not about the dead part, but about the happy part. I'm glad you're happy."

"Yes, and I'd be a lot happier at the moment if you put a shirt on."

She did, giggling. It was so uncharacteristic of her, he wasn't sure his hearing was fine. She just didn't giggle.

Maybe she was getting sick...

"Are you all right?"

She giggled even louder.

"Oh, Sherlock. You know, I would have probably been incredibly bored right now, too," then her eyes grew wide. "Oh, damn. We've wasted all this time. Come on!" She sprang out from under the blankets, making him shiver.

"Fine."

When they got out of the tiny tent, they both woke up and went into "work-mode".

Sherlock took the knife-saw, and she took the axe, and there was a bit of silence as they concentrated. In a few hours, Joe had him help her with the higher parts of the wall, looking very pleased they had reached that far. Then it was suddenly finished.

Sherlock had no idea how it happened so fast. One minute she's attaching the wood together, and the next he's putting finishing touches on the cracks.

"Joe..."

"I know. It looks wonderful, doesn't it?"

"Well, that's a rather subjective question, isn't-" he was engulfed in a hug.

After a moment, Joe disentangled herself and said, "I agree."

"Right. Er, door," why did he blush so much?

She was eighteen, he was nineteen, and they were living together, but... it wasn't like that. Right? It was just for practical purposes, and sure, maybe they were now friends, close friends, in fact, but then why did he act so strange?

They'd been sharing everything for a little over two months, and already he felt like he'd known her for all her life.

"Sherlock?"

Had he spaced out?

"Yeah, sorry. Door."

The door was pretty simple. The hardest part had been making it the right shape, but after that all they had to do was add loops at the bottom and the sides to attach it and keep it closed. Sherlock thought that maybe later, they would improve it, but for now, it would be fine. They were almost finished.

It was funny how they had been working on so many things for so long and then suddenly they were finishing them.

Joe was already finishing it, and Sherlock volunteered to go get more firewood. It was getting much easier to do so as it was getting drier and warmer.

He was bending over to pick up a nice branch when a stick fell on his back, and just like that, he was back in the past.

_It's not important what happened then_, he told himself. _It's not._

It was one of the burn sessions. He must have been yelling, because the next moment, Joe was there and Sherlock found himself looking at her scrunched up eyebrows and fear-filled eyes.

"Flashback again," she muttered. It wasn't a question. "Come on."

He go up and followed her back to their tent, where she quickly started a fire and got some water boiling.

Whoever Mycroft was... _brother_... whispered the voice in his ear. He must be worried. _I wonder if I have any friends_. And Joe. Did people miss her? She ran away from her family, but surely other people missed her.

_Maybe there are people looking for both of us. Well, they won't find us here._ Except by mistake.

He was very far away from where he was kept. The train he'd escaped on had gone for a couple of hours without stopping. No one would look here.

He was still nervous.

_It's irrational_. His body didn't listen.

"Here." Joe handed him a mug with scented hot water and draped a blanket over him. For some reason, it reminded him of shock blankets, although why he'd have that association he had no idea.

"Thanks. And sorry about before."

She glared at him. "If you say you're sorry about this one more time, I really will skin you." She held up a knife for effect.

"Sor- er, can I say I'm sorry for saying sorry?" he smiled.

"Only if you promise not to do it again."

"You know I can't do that. It's not something I do on purpose. It's irrational of you to demand that."

"You know what I mean," she got serious. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"All right."

Sherlock didn't remember when exactly he fell asleep.


	10. Middle-Earth

**All right, I'm sure there's lots of confusing stuff in here, sorry. For the actual A/N see the bottom.**

**Also, see the end for the picture.**

Chapter 10

There and Back Again, an Unexpected Journey

Sherlock and Jane were sitting on their bridge over the stream, bare feet swinging. It was strange, a little bit more than three years ago, they hadn't known each other, but now they were entirely codependent.

Their relationship had significantly evolved. They were no longer tent-shares, they were family. It was never said, of course, as neither of them was one for sentimentality, but it was undeniable. The question remained, how exactly were they related?

One day when Sherlock was being particularly _Sherlocky_, Joe had given a peck on the cheek. He had hugged her (it had taken him a while to get used to those, but they'd gotten there eventually), so she decided that it was okay. Then he started kissing her on the nose and the top of her head. Then they started holding hands when they could.

Well, she decided, she would just leave it to go its natural way.

Sherlock had gotten very adept at setting traps and tracking animals, and Joe was good with her knife. Together, they managed to get a fair amount of meat and fish, so food wasn't much of a problem, except in the winter, when they just made do with mushrooms. They had gotten some deer in the past three years so Sherlock could finally stop wearing her father's stolen clothes and make himself some caveman style new ones. It was lucky he was so skinny, really. A healthy man would never fit into her spare coat or pants.

To any normal human being, they must look absolutely wild by now, thought Joe. She stared at him as he swung his legs off the side of their bridge (two tree-trunks over a stream). He was getting much taller, and had gained some weight, but was still very skinny, his cheekbones protruding and strong fingers long and stick-like. His dark curly hair was a mess, long and tangled, with bits of moss in it and falling into his eyes. She made him brush it about once a month and cut it sometimes, but they never really paid any attention to their appearances. He was dressed in a torn t-shirt and a deer-skin pack hung over his shoulder. They'd used fish bone needles (he could not believe some of the things she'd forgotten) to mend his jeans and make them both more shoes and sandals. He shaved with a knife. It was one of the only things about his look he actually cared about, that and his teeth, which he carefully brushed and flossed. It was quite amusing.

Unfortunately, he made her do it, too. Not shave, of course...

Joe stared down at her own hands. They had become very rough. She, too, wore a torn t-shirt and her hair was even more of a mess than his. At the moment, it was in a long braid, tied with a piece of cloth as he'd appropriated all the rubber bands for his experiments. She absentmindedly untangled a twig from one of the stray locks.

His hand found hers and they sat in silence for a minute.

It was pretty warm, and they'd finished the chores for the day. They had plenty of food, so it was useless to go getting more, as it would only go bad, and there was no need for firewood. They'd built the little shack that was their project for the summer a week ago, and nothing was broken.

As they sat on the tree-trunk, she thought of what she would be doing right now if she hadn't found him. _Probably sitting high up in a tree. Or maybe I wouldn't have gone this long out here. He's helped a lot. _

And he had. She could hunt with her knife and identify various plants. He could build traps and mechanisms to keep them warm. They both had half the skills one needed to live out here.

She was so glad Sherlock was here.

They fought sometimes, of course. It was impossible not to. He'd storm away, claiming she was being hysterical or that sentiment was clouding her judgment. One of the worst fights they'd had was over the bridge. He wanted to build a proper one, or at least one that was more practical than what they had then (a log). She claimed it would ruin the whole point of living here. She said that next thing they'd be using mobile phones.

In retrospect, it was silly. He yelled at her for being a silly girl and she called him an unfeeling bastard. They both left for a day, wandering around and feeling dreadful. Then they rushed back and agreed on two tree-trunks over the stream. Of course, the fight left both of them feeling guilty and they were extra-polite for a week or so, after which it all went back to normal.

When they'd finished the hut-cave they hadn't known what to do. It had been their work for four months, by then. They started working on the inside, arranging "furniture" and building the oven. This was something they were both very proud of. It was built of mud (Sherlock called it clay) bricks and stones and had a place underneath for the fire, and a big hole for the food and a chimney for the smoke. They even made a lid for it. (A/N SEE THE PICTURE) Then there was their "table" which was a box of wood covered in smooth clay and the chairs (logs). They still slept together because "wasting body heat is illogical", as Sherlock put it. They also had a big box for their stuff and a "cabinet" for the food and dishes. They did their business outside.

Three and a half years ago, when she started out on her little journey, she packed well. Still, they had been missing some things, like mugs. Sherlock had gone on and on about that. He'd called her so many things... soon after, though, she learned not to take his insults seriously. He would call her "stupid" and "silly" and "emotional", but he didn't mean any of it.

He was very smart. At first, Joe thought he'd been a policeman. Like a detective. Now, though, she just couldn't imagine him taking orders from anyone (except her). Maybe he was a scientist?

_I wonder if anyone misses him._

He'd infected her with his fear of anyone else. She eventually found out what had happened to him. It wasn't pretty and she had many nightmares, although nowhere near as many as he did. He was always ashamed of them, no matter what she told him. Joe thought he was incredibly strong. He managed to stop flinching at fast movements very quickly and stopped having flashbacks soon after. She shuddered as she remembered one of the worst ones he'd had. She hadn't been able to snap him out of it until he'd yelled himself hoarse.

"Joe?" He snapped her out of her musings.

"Yeah?"

"When is your birthday?"

That was so typically _Sherlock_, that she burst out laughing.

"What? Did I ask something wrong? Or," he cringed, "Did you already tell me? Did I forget?" This only made her laugh harder.

He looked at her with that confused expression of his.

"Don't worry, it's not-" she sighed, "September seventeenth. When's yours?"

"January the sixth, I think." He looked troubled.

"Is something wrong?"

"No, it's just... I haven't been getting you presents," he frowned. "I know people are supposed to. Sentiment, and all that."

"Don't worry. You can make me something by this year's. Although I have no idea what day it is."

"Neither have I."

"It's fine, really," she chuckled. "You pretend not to care about feelings but you'll get upset over missed birthdays. Go figure."

He looked affronted. "I do not care about feelings."

"Never said you did."

"Oh. Right, well." He drummed a rhythm with the fingers of his free hand, his left. He still had trouble with it sometimes. Sherlock said that maybe it hadn't fixed itself correctly.

"Do you want to go home?" Joe asked.

"No."

At times he wouldn't talk for days, whistling sad melodies and working all the time. Joe wasn't even sure he knew she was there on those days. Then one morning he'd wake up and start a conversation. It was slightly bizarre. He also didn't need to sleep as much as any normal person. She'd wake up and he would be sitting and carving something with her swiss-army knife. She never saw any of his finished... whatever he made. Except the stuff she asked him to make, of course.

After the mugs and the teacups he made large bowls and pots, a pitcher and a trough. Then he branched out, making beakers for his experiments, closing boxes, other objects. He had the brilliant idea of digging a deep whole in the ground and lining it with clay to store food in cold weather. He spent a day on the lid. Sherlock learned how to carve soon after. When she was done making fun of his pathetic first attempt she demonstrated basic technique and left him alone for a day, returning to a pile of plates, spoons, knives, wooden marbles (they kept those) and a wooden plaque with the numbers 33333331 scratched into it, as he claimed that the fact that 31, 331, 3331, 33331, 333331, 3333331, were also prime numbers was amazing. Later, he made a neater one reading 33333331B and attached it to their door. Joe had told him to add the B because it was funny.

One day when she was sick he'd left to go gathering firewood and came back a while later with a wooden wagon. He told her he'd been working on it for a while and today seemed as good a day as any to surprise her with it. Joe honestly had no idea as to who was more amazed at his kindness of the two of them. And he really was kind. He was rude, and very arrogant, and got annoyed easily, but he never meant to hurt her, or anyone, for that matter. She once caught him putting a chick back in its nest. He'd blushed, shrugged, and strode off into the forest.

They'd gotten very good at finding their way around. Within what seemed like a kilometer radius, everything was very familiar and even farther on, they had no trouble. In the beginning, they had gotten lost a couple of times, usually only returning by using Sherlock's ridiculous photographic memory and eerie sense of direction.

They'd named the clearing with their cave-hut "the Shire" and the whole area was "Middle Earth". The creek was the "Brandywine". Sherlock had wanted their hut to be "Bag-End" but they finally agreed on "the Burrow". As a joke, Joe had called the swiss army knife "the Elder Wand" and the name stuck.

It was Sherlock's, now. He liked to say that he didn't even need to kill her to win it over.

"Want to go to Bree?" suddenly asked Sherlock.

"Alright." She never knew when he would do this. Just ask her something like that, out of the blue. Bree was was a less dense part of the forest with an enormous tree (nicknamed "the Whomping Willow") in which he finally overcame the flinching and opened up to her, spilling all his secrets and troubles. It was also where she first started to understand what civilization meant to him, so she tightened her grip on his hand.

Needless to say, she got quite a scare when at that precise moment she saw a man taking pictures of them on his enormous camera.

**For the pictures of the Burrow, if anything's unclear, go to figurephoto. blogspot. com, it's the first post. Sorry for all the Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings references... **

**Also, I might (probably will) do a series of one-shots about Joe and Sherlock's time in the forest, but I decided to fast-forward a bit. Hope you don't mind.**


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